Fallout: Prometheus

The sun struck my face the moment I stepped outside — warm, bright, blinding. For a second, I squinted, raising a hand against the light like some poor wretch seeing the sky for the first time.

Pathetic.

I'd barely been alive again for a handful of hours, and already I resented how… small I felt.

The Mojave stretched wide before me — endless sand, jagged hills, sharp blue sky. But it wasn't empty. The desert was never empty. You just needed eyes sharp enough to read its language.

Goodsprings lay ahead, clinging to the hills like a stubborn weed refusing to die. Not quite a town, not just a settlement — something caught in between. Too proud to shrink away, too battered to grow.

Houses dotted the hillside — weathered, sun-bleached, patched together with sheet metal and stubborn determination. Wind turbines clicked in the distance, some still spinning, others left to rust. Thin power lines stretched down into the heart of the settlement, feeding off whatever juice the locals scraped together — part old-world salvage, part NCR infrastructure siphoned from the Hoover Dam far to the east.

It was enough to run lights. Fans. Maybe a radio or two. But the hum of civilization was faint here, like a candle fighting against a sandstorm.

Far ahead the town, the old road curved south — cracked asphalt and faded signs, leading down toward the highway. Even from here, I could see the crumbling remains of an NCR checkpoint, its sandbag barriers abandoned, its flag torn and forgotten. The outpost was dead… and something else had taken its place.

Figures milled around the checkpoint — ragged, armed, confident in their lawlessness.

Powder Gangers, I guessed, though the name scratched faintly at the edges of my fractured memory. Escaped prisoners with dynamite and bad intentions. The NCR had been here once, but they'd tucked their tail and left. The Mojave didn't care much for weakness — and neither, apparently, did the criminals squatting on the NCR's bones.

I sneered faintly at the thought. Power abandoned is power wasted.

Goodsprings remained, though. Fragile, stubborn… but alive. I spotted brahmin grazing along the sparse pastures, families moving between homes, and a few wary eyes peering from shaded porches as I approached. They weren't used to strangers — not anymore. Out here, strangers meant trouble.

They weren't entirely wrong.

Adjusting the worn leather of my vest, I let my gaze sweep across the town, cataloging the details — tactical weaknesses, escape routes, the terrain. Even stripped of my memories, my mind still worked. Cold. Sharp. Efficient.

Whatever I'd been before… some of it survived.

And so did I.

For now.

I started down the slope, boots crunching over sunbaked dirt and loose gravel. The road leading into Goodsprings wasn't much — more a suggestion of civilization than anything else. Cracked, faded asphalt peeked through patches of stubborn grass and drifting sand, the edges lined with rough stone and the occasional scrap of old-world fencing.

The further I walked, the more the settlement revealed itself.

Goodsprings. A place on the edge — not just of the hills, but of relevance. You could feel it in the way the homes leaned like tired old men, the way the townsfolk kept their doors half-shut and their eyes sharper than their tools. It wasn't thriving. It was… enduring. Clinging to life by calloused fingers and stubborn grit.

Brahmin lowed from a small corral. Wind turbines creaked as they turned. Power lines sagged under their own weight. Even the saloon ahead — the so-called Prospector Saloon — looked worn but defiant, its faded paint peeling like sunburnt skin.

I adjusted the bag on my shoulder and kept moving, eyes scanning, calculating. Terrain. Foot traffic. Defensive positions. Even stripped of my memories, my instincts whispered tactics.

But then… a sound.

The rhythmic whir of servos. The faint grinding of treads over stone.

I paused, one hand instinctively drifting toward the pistol at my side as a shadow crept into view from around a weathered shack. A round, metallic head poked out — polished chrome catching the desert sun, a broad cowboy hat tilted low over a screen that flickered to life with a cartoonish, grinning face.

"Well howdy, partner!"

It trundled closer, the heavy frame moving with surprising smoothness for its size. Military-grade design, retrofitted with desert charm — unmistakable.

A Securitron.

I scanned it quickly. Dust caked the treads. Scratches along the chassis. Tiny flakes of fresh soil clung to the lower plating… and the faintest smear of dried blood near the joints.

That was enough.

My eyes narrowed, arms crossing over my chest.

"You're the one who dug me up."

The screen's cartoonish expression beamed wider, completely unbothered by the cold edge in my voice.

"Sure as sugar! Dug ya right outta that shallow grave up by the cemetery. You were in rough shape, partner — but Doc Mitchell fixed ya up right as rain."

A shallow grave.

The words stirred faint embers in my fractured mind — flashes of dirt, cold ground, pain… and faces I couldn't place.

I exhaled slowly, gaze drifting to the machine's treads again — the clumps of cemetery dirt still clinging there.

Efficient. Predictable. Convenient.

But not unappreciated.

"Guess I owe you thanks," I muttered, eyes still watching for any hidden weapons under that steel shell. "And maybe some questions."

Victor's digital face winked.

"Anytime, partner. I'm always happy to lend a mechanical hand!"

I tilted my head slightly, studying Victor's frame as the desert wind whispered around us. The mechanical grin on his screen never wavered, but no amount of cartoon charm could hide reinforced plating and military design. A walking contradiction, patched together from old-world security and small-town friendliness.

A dangerous one, at that.

I crossed my arms. "You dug me up… why?"

Victor's servos whirred softly as he adjusted his stance, treads grinding the dirt beneath him.

"Well now, wasn't much of a choice, partner. Saw them fellas buryin' you up by the cemetery. Figured it weren't proper, what with you still breathin' and all."

Still breathing.

A faint pulse of irritation prickled behind my eyes. That detail—the men, the grave—it floated just beyond reach, shrouded in the fog of my fractured mind.

"You saw them?" My voice sharpened, measured but heavy with implication. "How many? What'd they look like?"

Victor's screen flickered briefly, the animated face tilting in thought.

"Let's see now… four of 'em, if I recollect. One was dressed sharp—real fancy suit, talkin' like he owned the place. The others… rough types. Hired muscle, I reckon."

A faint, broken fragment stirred in my mind—a gleam of a platinum chip, a cold voice, the desert night.

"And you just… watched?" I pressed, my eyes narrowing. "Didn't intervene?"

Victor's digital smile didn't falter, but the servos in his frame made the faintest hum, like tension winding through metal.

"Didn't seem wise to get mixed up, partner. I ain't built for takin' on that many at once. But I did stick around, saw 'em clear off, then got you outta that grave. Hauled you down to Doc Mitchell lickety-split. Figured I did the next best thing."

It was a calculated answer. Honest, in its way. The logic made sense—even a machine with military hardware would hesitate to engage unknown hostiles alone. Still… something about him felt rehearsed. Convenient.

But for now… useful.

I relaxed my stance slightly, letting the scrutiny fade just enough.

"Where'd they go?" I asked.

Victor's screen tilted again. "They headed toward the highway. North, near as I can tell. Couldn't follow 'em far—had to make sure you didn't kick the bucket 'fore I got you to the doc."

The North. Toward Vegas.

Or so I assumed. The geography still shifted like broken glass in my mind.

I adjusted the strap of my gear, watching Victor a moment longer. Helpful? Possibly. Dangerous? Definitely, in the right circumstances. But for now… he'd done more good than harm.

One last question.

"Why'd you care?" I asked simply. "You don't strike me as the Samaritan type."

Victor's screen flickered, his expression shifting into a playful, exaggerated grin.

"Guess you could say I like keepin' an eye on things. Ain't every day a mystery fella like you drops into town. Besides…" His voice dropped to a lower, more mechanical hum. "Somethin' tells me you got a part to play out here, partner. Bigger than most."

I stared at him, reading between the lines.

Cryptic. Convenient. And unsettlingly aware.

But for now… I had other priorities.

"Right," I muttered. "Thanks for the rescue, then."

Victor gave a tip of his hat, spinning slightly on his treads. "Don't mention it. Goodsprings's a friendly place… mostly. You holler if you need help."

With that, the Securitron trundled off down the road, whistling some old-world tune through his speakers, leaving me alone with my fragmented thoughts… and a growing trail to follow.

Victor's mechanical humming faded behind me as I made my way down the cracked main road, the low hum of wind and creaking wood filling the space between footsteps.

The closer I got to the heart of Goodsprings, the more I felt the eyes.

Subtle. Careful. But unmistakable.

They watched from porches shaded under sagging awnings… from behind half-closed windows… from gaps between warped fence posts. Men, women, even a few older children — their gazes sharp, guarded, tracking me like I was some animal wandering too close to their homestead.

I didn't blame them.

This wasn't the curiosity of townsfolk meeting a stranger. This was the quiet, simmering caution of people too familiar with danger.

They weren't welcoming me. They were assessing me.

And while I lacked the specifics of this town's politics, the conclusion wrote itself clearly across their wary faces and tensed shoulders: trouble had been here recently… and probably still was.

A frontier settlement like Goodsprings wasn't built for luxury or comfort — it survived because it stayed small, quiet, unnoticed. But something had shaken that delicate balance.

Raiders? Bandits? No… not the usual disorganized rabble.

Powder Gangers.

The name floated to the surface of my fractured mind like oil on water. Escaped convicts turned paramilitaries, armed with dynamite and bad tempers, squatting in the ruins of the old Correctional Facility south of here.

Goodsprings sat uncomfortably close to their territory.

That explained the eyes, the guarded stares, the faint scent of fear that clung to the dusty air. The town wasn't under siege… but it was held hostage, quietly, like a knife at the throat no one wanted to acknowledge aloud.

I adjusted my stance, posture straight, shoulders broad, gaze forward — let them look. Let them size me up. I wasn't here to comfort them… not yet. Let them wonder what kind of trouble I might bring.

The Prospector Saloon loomed ahead — weathered wood, sun-bleached signage, the faintest drift of smoke and voices slipping out the cracked windows. A gathering place. The kind of place where rumors, threats, and plans all simmered together over weak drinks and loaded pistols.

I was three paces from the saloon door when the voice caught me.

"Hold up there, stranger."

Gravelly. Slow. The kind of voice worn down by years under the sun, but still carrying enough weight to make folks stop and listen.

I turned, eyes narrowing slightly, tracing the source.

An old man sat on the porch just to the left of the saloon, half-hidden in the shade. Weathered face, tanned leather skin pulled tight by decades of labor and radiation. Faded denim. Worn boots. His hat was broad-brimmed and beat to hell — same with the old, scarred toolbelt at his side. A prospector's belt.

But it wasn't the gear that held my attention. It was the eyes.

Sharp. Observant. The kind that didn't miss much, even if the body had slowed down.

He chewed on a blade of dry grass, watching me with quiet suspicion, one hand resting lazily near a well-maintained old revolver sitting beside him.

"Don't get many folks driftin' into town lookin' like you," the old man drawled, spitting the grass to the ground. "Ain't sure if that's good… or trouble."

I studied him for a moment. Another one of the cautious ones… but with more patience than fear. A relic of the old frontier stock.

The corners of my mouth twitched faintly. "You always this welcoming, or am I just lucky?"

The old man gave a faint snort — could've been amusement, could've been dismissal.

"Name's Easy Pete. Used to be a prospector. Don't do much diggin' no more… but I keep my ears open."

His eyes narrowed slightly, scanning me the same way I'd just scanned him.

"You look… new. Ain't part of those Powder Ganger types, are ya? Or worse?"

I could've lied. Played innocent. But I wasn't some dumb, greenhorn wastelander with soft hands and wide eyes.

I let the silence stretch a beat longer, then spoke plainly.

"Not Powder Gangers. Not NCR. Not Legion. Just a man with questions."

Easy Pete grunted softly. "Mm-hmm. Well, reckon that's better than some options."

His eyes drifted to the south, toward the distant hills where the Correctional Facility lay like a bad memory refusing to die.

"You got questions… Prospector Saloon's where you'll find your answers," he added. "Long as you ain't lookin' for the wrong kind."

I nodded once, filing the old man away — useful observer. Knows the land. Likely knows the trouble brewing around here, too.

"Appreciate the advice," I replied, turning back to the door.

"Uh-huh." Easy Pete's voice followed me. "Just… watch yourself. Town's holdin' together by threads right now. Strangers tug on threads."

His warning hung in the air as I pushed open the saloon door and stepped inside.

The door creaked open on tired hinges, and I stepped into the Prospector Saloon.

Cooler air hit my face, stale with sweat, alcohol, smoke… and tension. The kind of tension that settles in a room where everyone knows they're one bad day away from a firefight.

It wasn't crowded, but it wasn't empty either.

A few locals nursed drinks at mismatched tables, heads turning lazily as I entered, eyes sharp beneath weather-beaten brows. Their conversations quieted — not hostile, not yet — but wary. Outsiders meant questions. Questions meant trouble.

Behind the bar, a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and sunburned skin wiped down glasses, her gaze flicking up to size me the moment I crossed the threshold. Her hand hovered near the shotgun resting below the counter. Smart.

But my attention drifted elsewhere — to the corner near the window, where a young woman crouched beside a mongrel dog, its ears perked, eyes watchful. The mutt let out a faint growl as I entered, but the woman calmed it with a quiet pat, eyes lifting to meet mine.

Sunny Smiles.

Had to be.

Lean build, sun-kissed skin, the posture of someone who spent more time outdoors than in. Rifle propped against the table beside her. Rough clothes, utility belt, confident eyes that sized me up without flinching.

She wasn't waiting for me. She wasn't here to hand out charity. She was here because this was her town, her people, and strangers walking in unannounced… that meant potential problems.

Smart. I liked that.

I let my gaze sweep the room one more time, cataloguing the layout — exits, bottlenecks, faces, threats — before making my way toward the bar. No sense charging in headfirst. Let them get used to me. Let them underestimate me.

The barkeep raised an eyebrow as I approached.

"Don't think I've seen you around," she said evenly.

"Not surprising," I replied, voice steady, posture controlled. "I've only been alive again for about a day."

Her eyes flicked to my temple, the faint scar hidden beneath my hairline, her suspicion easing just enough to be replaced with curiosity.

From the corner, I felt Sunny Smiles watching me too — quiet, measuring, waiting to see what kind of man had walked into her town.

That was fine.

I'd been doing the same to them.

The barkeep's voice faded into the background as I turned away from the bar.

My focus locked onto the young woman in the corner—the one with the mutt curled loyally by her side and the rifle propped against her chair. Her eyes hadn't left me since I stepped in. Not with fear. With caution. The kind of sharp, frontier caution you only earned from living too close to the edge for too long.

No invitation. No smile.

Good.

I crossed the room at a measured pace, every set of eyes tracking me as I approached. The dog let out a low growl again, teeth just barely flashing beneath its curled lip.

I stopped a few paces short, giving both of them room.

"Sunny Smiles, I presume?" I asked, voice level, cool.

Her brows knit, suspicion deepening for a moment. "Who's askin'?"

Sharp, clear voice. The confidence of someone who carried themselves like they knew how to handle trouble… or at least shoot it before it got close.

I gave a faint nod toward the mutt. "The dog gave it away. Figure there's only one woman in this town who runs with a trained companion and walks around like she's got both eyes on every threat that steps foot past the saloon door."

The corner of her mouth twitched. Maybe amusement. Maybe irritation.

"You've got good eyes, stranger. Still didn't answer my question."

Fair.

I straightened, arms crossing casually. "Name's Prometheus." No point giving her the whole tragic, 'I got shot in the head' speech yet. Let her work for it, same as I had to.

She studied me for a beat, eyes narrowing slightly, reading between my words, my stance, the faint scars still healing at my temple.

"Prometheus…" she echoed, as if testing how it fit in her mouth. "Don't sound local."

"Don't feel local either," I replied dryly. "But Doc Mitchell patched me up. Said you might be the one to help get me back on my feet."

That, at least, made her pause. The suspicion lingered, but the pieces clicked in her head.

Her eyes flicked down my frame again, lingering briefly on the faint surgical traces hidden under my hairline, and then back to my eyes.

"Wait… you're that guy?" she asked, incredulous. "The one Victor hauled in near dead?"

I shrugged faintly. "Seems my reputation's traveling faster than my recovery."

She exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of her neck. "Damn. Doc only mentioned you were in bad shape yesterday. Guess he didn't get around to tellin' me you were already walkin'… let alone talkin'."

"Fast learner," I offered flatly.

She gave a faint chuckle despite herself, then nodded toward the empty chair opposite her.

"Well… if you're lookin' to get your legs back under you, might as well start now."

The young woman straightened, rifle resting easily against her leg now, though her eyes stayed sharp.

"Sunny Smiles," she finally offered, tapping her chest lightly. "Local guide, tracker, part-time ranch hand, full-time problem solver." A faint smirk ghosted across her face. "Sounds fancier than it is."

"Prometheus," I replied, keeping it simple. No backstory to give — not yet. "New to town. New to… everything, apparently."

Her eyes lingered on the faint mark at my temple again, reading between the lines.

"Well," she drawled, shifting to stand, "consider this your lucky day. If you're plannin' to stick around, or even just make it to the next town over without gettin' shot, you'll need more than luck."

She grabbed her rifle and whistled softly to the dog, who fell in line as she moved past me.

"C'mon. Out back."

I raised an eyebrow but stood, following without argument. The eyes in the saloon followed us, but nobody made a move. Word traveled fast in small places.

We slipped out the side door into the rear lot behind the saloon. A stretch of open dirt ringed by a faded wooden fence, a few crates stacked off to one side. The sun was lower now, shadows stretching long across the yard, but the heat still clung to the air like a stubborn sickness.

Sunny walked to the fence, setting her rifle down and pulling a few dusty glass bottles from a crate. She lined them along the rail with methodical precision, like this wasn't the first greenhorn she'd had to drag through basic survival training.

"Best place to start's seein' if you can actually hit somethin'," she said, dusting her hands off. Her eyes flicked toward me, that same mixture of caution and faint curiosity lingering. "You look built tough, but that won't mean much if you can't shoot straight."

I let my hand drift to the pistol at my hip, the weapon Doc Mitchell had given me before sending me out the door. It felt light… familiar… yet foreign at the same time.

Memories scrambled. Instincts intact.

"Alright," I muttered, stepping forward as she backed away. "Let's see how broken I really am."

The pistol settled into my hand like it belonged there.

Light. Balanced. Familiar in ways my fractured memory couldn't explain — but my body remembered. The weight. The grip. The faint tension in the trigger. It was all there, as if I'd held it a thousand times before… even if I couldn't recall a single one.

The glass bottles lined the fence rail, sunlight catching on their dusty surfaces. A simple enough target. A basic test.

I raised the pistol, and the world… slowed.

The chatter of the saloon behind us faded. The distant hum of the wind turbines silenced. Even Cheyenne's faint growl dulled to background noise.

All that remained was my breath — steady — and the weapon — steady — and the targets.

One…

The first shot cracked through the yard. Glass shattered into glittering shards.

Two…

The second bottle exploded before the fragments of the first hit the dirt.

Three. Four. Five.

By the time the fifth bottle burst, I was already lowering the pistol, slide locking back, the gun empty — but my stance unchanged. Balanced. Controlled. As if the entire motion was… routine.

Sunny Smiles stared.

It wasn't the wide-eyed awe of someone seeing a marksman at work. It was the quiet, narrowed gaze of someone recalculating everything they thought they knew about the stranger standing in front of them.

Cheyenne tilted her head, ears twitching.

I let the pistol drop back to my side, meeting Sunny's eyes evenly.

She blinked, adjusted her stance, then gave a low whistle under her breath.

"Well… guess you ain't as broken as you thought," she muttered, one brow raised. "Or… you've done this before. A lot."

I didn't answer immediately.

Because I hadn't done this before — not consciously. My memories still lay in shattered fragments across the back of my skull. But my hands… my body… they told a different story.

A story someone — most likely Vault-Tec — had written into my bones and nerves long before I ever woke up in that clinic.

I shrugged, faint smirk curling at the corner of my mouth.

"Guess I'm a fast learner."

Sunny studied me for a beat longer, suspicion not gone, but tempered by reluctant respect.

"Yeah… fast's one word for it."

She tossed me another magazine, nodding toward the fence.

"Let's see what else that fancy brain and steady hand of yours can do."

The next magazine clicked into place with practiced ease. The faint scrape of metal on metal echoed as I holstered the pistol again.

Sunny shook her head slightly, still watching me with that same cautious calculation.

"Alright," she said, finally shouldering her rifle, "you've got hands steadier than most I've seen, but hittin' bottles on a fence and stayin' alive out there are two different things."

I quirked an eyebrow. "Out where?"

"Edge of town," she replied, motioning for me to follow. "There's a well out past the hills. Place draws in wildlife… mostly geckos. Nasty little things — quick, mean, and they'll strip you to the bone if you're not careful."

Cheyenne fell in beside her as she started walking, tail wagging faintly, the dog clearly more comfortable now that I wasn't a complete unknown with a weapon in hand.

I fell into step behind them, boots crunching over dry dirt as we cut through the back path of Goodsprings. The houses faded behind us — squat, sun-bleached structures clinging stubbornly to the hillside — replaced by the endless stretch of desert, dotted with the occasional scrub bush and stubborn cactus.

Sunny's voice carried back over her shoulder.

"Figured Doc Mitchell would've been the one draggin' you out here, but… guess you bounced back quicker than he expected."

"Vault-Tec," I muttered, mostly to myself.

"'Scuse me?" she asked, glancing back.

"Never mind."

The well came into view — an old, cracked structure of concrete and rusted piping surrounded by patches of stubborn weeds. Faint animal tracks crisscrossed the dirt nearby, and the faintest stink of reptilian musk clung to the air.

Sunny crouched low, scanning the area with a practiced eye. I followed, letting instinct and fragmented memories guide my assessment.

Tracks. Scorch marks on the dirt. Claw scratches on nearby rocks.

"Geckos," I confirmed quietly.

Sunny shot me a sidelong look, impressed despite herself.

"You sure you don't remember nothin'? You read the signs better than half the ranchers in town."

I didn't answer. The truth unsettled even me.

Instead, I drew the pistol, steady hands already falling into their natural rhythm.

Sunny raised her rifle, eyes sharp, voice low.

"Stay behind me at first. Watch how they move. When the time's right, we'll put those fancy instincts of yours to use."

A faint rustle in the brush confirmed her warning. Low, guttural hissing drifted on the wind.

The hunt was on.

The hissing grew louder.

From the scrub brush ahead, shapes slithered into view — squat, scaled, all claws and teeth and beady, reptilian eyes. Their low bodies hugged the ground, muscles coiled, tails swaying like whips ready to strike.

Geckos.

Not the harmless kind you'd see sunning themselves on a rock. These were the Mojave's answer to evolution gone wrong — oversized, aggressive, built for tearing through flesh and bone with alarming speed.

Sunny's rifle came up, her stance wide, practiced. "Couple of 'em. Should be easy, long as they don't swarm."

I leveled the pistol, breath steady. The faint hum of adrenaline trickled through my system — not panic… not excitement… something else entirely.

Calibration.

It was like my body had been designed for this — every muscle, every tendon, every neural response snapping into place the moment the threat revealed itself.

The first gecko lunged.

I squeezed the trigger once. Clean shot. The creature crumpled mid-stride, momentum carrying its lifeless body to the dirt, it began to ooze the crimson of its life to the Earth.

The second hissed, circling wide, claws digging into the dry earth.

I adjusted a fraction — no wasted motion — and fired again. Another clean hit. It collapsed, limbs twitching faintly before going still.

Sunny lowered her rifle, the faintest flicker of surprise breaking her usual steady expression.

"That…" she started, eyes flicking between me and the downed geckos. "…was quick."

I shrugged, sliding the pistol back into its holster. "Guess it comes naturally."

She didn't respond immediately. Just studied me, eyes narrowing slightly as her mind worked through the pieces — the flawless aim, the unnatural composure, the instincts that didn't quite fit a man supposedly recovering from a bullet to the skull.

Finally, she shook her head faintly, lips curling into a dry half-smirk.

"Well… far be it from me to complain about free help." She nudged one of the downed geckos with her boot. "Could've been worse."

I scanned the area — tracks disturbed, but no fresh movement.

"Any more of them?" I asked.

"Plenty," she replied, adjusting her grip on the rifle. "But that'll do for now. Figure you've earned your first lesson in wasteland hospitality."

I dusted my hands off, the faint metallic scent of spent rounds still clinging to the air.

The hunt was over — but the puzzle of who, or what, I really was… that was just beginning.

I was holstering my pistol when the scream cut through the desert air.

Sharp. Panicked. Female.

Sunny's posture snapped rigid, her rifle coming up as her eyes locked toward the source — the rocky ridge beyond the well.

"Damn it—" she cursed under her breath. Without another word, she sprinted toward the sound, Cheyenne at her heels.

I followed, feet pounding dry earth, my breath steady despite the urgency. Whoever was screaming… they were alive. For now.

We crested the low rise in seconds, boots kicking up dust as we cleared the ridge.

There, at the base of a shallow, crumbling hill, three geckos circled a lone figure — a young woman, maybe late teens, pinned against a boulder, clutching a rusting water bucket in trembling hands. Her eyes were wide with terror, her back pressed tight to the stone.

The geckos hissed and snapped, their muscular bodies coiled to strike.

Three targets. Close proximity. Civilian in the line of fire.

My mind calculated the odds before conscious thought even caught up.

"Cover her!" Sunny shouted, already raising her rifle.

No time to hesitate.

I drew my pistol mid-stride, the weapon weightless in my grip.

The first gecko lunged.

Two clean shots. One to the skull, one to the chest. It collapsed instantly, kicking up dirt.

The second turned, startled by the gunfire, only for Sunny's rifle to crack like thunder. The round tore through its side, sending it tumbling with a strangled hiss.

The last one, larger, meaner, jaws wide—

I was already moving, sidestepping to avoid its charge. My pistol barked twice more, both rounds striking center mass, the creature dropping mid-pounce barely a meter from the terrified girl.

Silence reclaimed the desert, save for the girl's ragged breathing and the distant echo of the shots.

I holstered the weapon, eyes scanning for any more threats. Clear.

Sunny approached the girl cautiously, rifle lowered but ready.

"You alright?" she called out, voice steady but laced with concern.

The girl nodded quickly, clutching her rifle tighter, wide eyes flicking between Sunny, me, and the downed geckos.

I stayed back, gaze cool, already reading the situation — the girl was shaken but uninjured. Lucky.

Sunny offered her a hand.

"C'mon, let's get you back to town."

As the girl stumbled to her feet, eyes lingering on me with a mixture of awe and uncertainty, I found myself watching her too — not out of sympathy… but calculation.

Because this world didn't offer many second chances.

But today… we'd bought her one.